Clean
by Ayla Pascal
Summary: The war is over but Harry isn't happy.


It all ended so quickly. Without a bang. Without even a whimper. Just silence floating over the bodies of the fallen. Both sides intermingled.

Blood. Blood everywhere, Harry thought. He took shallow breaths, careful not to breathe in the death that drenched everything around him.

Looking around, he saw the other Order members. Some were beginning to give tentative smiles as they realised what had happened, but Harry couldn't see what there was to smile about. There was just so much blood and death that he couldn't see clearly. He took off his glasses and tried to rub them on his robes, but only smeared them red. There was a lump in his throat that wouldn't go away.

"It's over," somebody said quietly, and Harry wanted to agree.

-

A year passed and Harry still couldn't wash off the stains of that last battle. Slowly, carefully, he scrubbed his robes over and over again, but the metallic smell seemed to permeate them. "The house elves can do that!" Ron exclaimed the first time he saw this, but Harry preferred to do it himself. There was something soothing and reassuring about the soapy feel of his fingers as they squeezed and twisted his robes until they frayed. But still they weren't clean. 

Even his glasses were still flecked with blood. Not visible blood, unless you looked at it carefully under the bright sunlight and squinted. Then, you could see the tiny miniscule droplets still clinging to the surface of the glass, mocking him.

Hermione always wondered why he didn't just get new glasses, but Harry liked his old ones. They had been through a lot with him. Besides, he had to get the blood off.

Sometimes, Harry lifted his fingers up to his nose and smelled them. There was always the overpowering smell of lavender laundry powder and soap, but underneath all of that, Harry was sure he was still dirty. There was always the faint whiff of death lurking in the speck of dirt beneath his fingernails so he had to scrub until his hands sparkled and stung.

Whenever anybody came to visit his house in Hogsmeade, Harry would always welcome them in with a smile, always careful, so careful, not to wince when they forgot to wipe their feet and take off their shoes. They never seemed to understand his worries. In fact, both Ron and Hermione tended to get a little worried when he mentioned the lingering smell of death and blood that floated around both of them like a halo. Hermione suggested that he see a Muggle therapist, but Harry refused. It wasn't as if he was crazy.

No, that was ridiculous. He simply wanted to cleanse his clothes, himself of the stench of war.

On most days, it wasn't too bad, but on some days, Harry sat there on his white bed, with the white duvet and white sheets and took deep breaths. On those rare days, it threatened to consume him.

Harry slowly wrung out the robe and watched as the clear water slid down the drain. Then for good measure, he rinsed the robe again.

Lifting the wet garment up to his nose, he took a deep breath and hoped that this time it would be clean.

-

Another year passed and Harry watched from his clean, little Hogsmeade house as his best friends got married. They waved cheerfully at him as their procession passed and he lifted his hand half-heartedly in return, but they had already moved on. He slowly made his way inside and wondered when the world left him behind.

Harry frowned as he saw that his shoes had a light sprinkling of dust but he couldn't bring himself to care as much as he did just a year ago. He had given up trying to clean his life when the robe had finally fallen apart under his fingers as he squeezed it one last time to get the last droplet of water out. Plus, he wondered at the use of cleaning the stains off his life when there was obviously no jewel to uncover underneath.

Making himself tea, Harry sat down with the steaming cup and stared at the wall. He seemed to be doing this a lot lately. Blank staring was as soothing to him as the strong, fragrant green tea that slid down his throat, burning slightly.

With Ron and Hermione on their honeymoon, Harry found himself increasingly alone. He hadn't realised how much they visited him before, until they were no longer there. Most other people simply left him alone. The Wizarding World didn't need its hero any longer. There were no more threats.

And so, Harry just sat there, sometimes reading, sometimes eating, but mostly sleeping away the days, weeks, months and years.

-

A few more years passed and Harry could feel himself slipping, sliding, drowning in apathy and there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do about it. He didn't have a job because nobody would hire him. Too much publicity, they always said. Harry supposed that they were right but it didn't make the rejection any easier.

So he slowly stopped bothering to go out. Dobby would get all his food and other groceries as well as preparing his meals. Harry still took care of the cleaning himself. It wasn't as though he didn't trust the house elf, but he still needed the reassurance of the white dust cloth under his fingers. It was comforting.

He tried his hand at writing a novel, but gave up after twenty pages. Pouring his soul onto parchment was cathartic, but he preferred to scrub and clean. 

There were sometimes pangs of loneliness but Harry quickly suppressed them. He was fine. Ron and Hermione came over occasionally but their visits were less regular than before. They always seemed to bring with them a whiff of life that dissipated quickly once they had gone. Harry found they had little in common now. They seemed absorbed in Ministry affairs - Hermione was trying to bring democracy to the wizarding world - and their plans of a family. Harry tried to listen, but found his attention wandering. He couldn't seem to bring himself to care any longer.

He began to wonder whether the wizarding world was really the best place for him. Maybe if he simply left - run away, a small voice cautioned - and left all this behind. Start anew elsewhere, as a Muggle.

Nobody would know him. There wouldn't be all these expectations. He could simply blend into the crowd and become just another face. It wasn't as if there was anything left here for him anyway. The house was clean and few ever came to visit.

Maybe it would be better if he just left? 

Harry hoped so, but doubted it at the same time, and continued to wipe every surface until it shone.

-

Five years after the last battle, Harry risked a cross-continent Apparation and left England forever. He didn't tell anybody but left a sparkling clean house in Hogsmeade and a long letter explaining why.

It took a month before anybody opened the letter. By that time, he was long gone and untraceable.

Harry always thought that was for the best.


End file.
